


Wassail

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas schmoop, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9060130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: Bedelia, Hannibal, some wine, and a bit of that old Christmas magic.





	

Hannibal takes his customary seat across from Bedelia, enjoying the way her hair glows white gold in the weak winter sun. He always enjoys his weekly hour spent in Bedelia’s company, though often he wishes for more than a mere sixty minutes. Still, even the most exquisite delicacy will grow stale if sampled too often, and so he savors his moments with her. In the summer, she cools him, crisp as her favorite Riesling, a dry, refreshing antidote to his own heated temper. And in the autumn, she stands as firm and unchanging as an evergreen, even as the world seems to blaze around her.

But in the winter he admires her most of all, for that is the season when nature rises up to meet Bedelia—he sees her in the white on white of a snowy afternoon, in the frozen perfection of a glassy lake and the icicle’s glistening sharpness. She holds court here in her living room, like the proverbial Snow Queen from a childhood fable.

But today in this last session before Christmas, the icy splendor of her home is disturbed by the presence of a half-decorated Christmas tree and several cardboard boxes in the corner by the window. It nags at him, a loose thread in Bedelia’s silken armor that he longs to tug at. It is unlike her to leave anything _in medias res_.

“Yes?” she prompts, tracking his line of sight.

“I was just noticing your tree. I am sorry our session intruded on your holiday preparations.”

“It’s fine,” she says, offhand and uncharacteristically flustered. “A last-minute decision on my part. I normally do not decorate.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” She’s never had a tree before, not in all the years he’d known her. He’d interpreted her lack of yuletide cheer as a combination of pragmatism and agnosticism. “Why the change this year?”

“My sister sent me a box of ornaments. They belonged to our mother.” She noticed the way his eyes widened at her use of the past tense. “She died this year.”

She hadn’t told him, of course. He tells her everything…well all that his person suit will allow…and still she tells him nothing. “My most sincere condolences.”

She nods politely, professionally. “Thank you. But Hannibal, we are not here to talk about me. I believe we were discussing your plans for the holidays?”

“Just a small cocktail party on Christmas Eve—you are still invited to attend, of course.”

“You are very kind, but you know why I cannot.”

It would be good for her to come. He worries about her, alone in this house. Even more alone since her “attack” earlier this year. Suddenly inspired, he leaps from his chair and begins inspecting Bedelia’s tree. It is a Douglas fir, with blue-green needles and a delightful smell, like a forest in winter. He picks up a fragile glass ornament—it glints gold and red in the fading afternoon light. “These are very beautiful. I can see why you treasure them. We did not have anything so fine when I was a child.”

“Oh?” Bedelia saunters over, and picks up another ornament, a silver snowflake. He is offering her a trade—something for something, memory for memory. “You have rarely spoken of your childhood, Hannibal.”

He continues, unpacking ornament after ornament; the glass has a fragile beauty he appreciates. “Mischa and I were very poor. We did not have money for ornaments or presents. But we had each other. This time of year, I miss her most of all.”

Bedelia accepts a tiny copper bell from him and says, “The holidays create feelings of nostalgia, perhaps for moments that were never truly there.”

He hears the sadness in her voice, and wonders if she does, too. “It is difficult to be alone this time of year. Will you be visiting your family in Chicago?”

“No,” she answers quickly, the single syllable steeped in unspoken bitterness. “My sister and I are not close. Unlike you and Mischa, we wanted for nothing.”

“Nothing material, perhaps.” He’d always detected a rift between Bedelia and her family, the sense that she had gone unloved by those who should have cherished her the most. He knows he has said too much when the look in her eyes freezes over and she shies away to the other side of the tree.

“In Lithuania we had peasant traditions; they do not map well onto American understandings of this holiday, so heavily commercialized. In Paris when I was a teenager, my aunt would host lavish parties full of music and wine, but as she was Japanese, the celebrations were anthropological at best. Still, I find these Christmases past more vivid and real than any celebrations I’ve hosted in recent years,” he says.

“It has been well documented that memories accumulated in adolescence and young adulthood have an indelible quality, the so-called ‘reminiscence bump.’ Those years are key to identity formation,” she says, remaining collected, cold, and neutral.

He watches her carefully place a small tin bird on the tree, gilt paint chipped and faded with age, the plumage of its peacock blue tail curling over her wrist. He places another in the branch higher, a jade green songbird with sequins for eyes and velvet for feathers. “So, he can be near his mate,” he says, carefully watching her for any reaction. His fingertips brush hers for the briefest second, her cheeks pinking at the slight charge that comes from flesh meeting flesh.

Her eyes are deep and fathomless and hold their secrets like the sea. “Hannibal,” she begins, then stops, uncertain of what to say. All of Bedelia’s pauses are pregnant with meaning, like the rests that punctuate a piece of elegant music. He wonders if on this the shortest day of the year, she will finally dare to speak what they have always left unspoken. But then the dreaded clock chimes in the hallway marking the end of their therapeutic hour, and the spell between them is broken yet again.

“I did not intend for us to spend the bulk of our time decorating my tree. If you would like to reschedule…” she offers, all business once again.

“On the contrary, Dr. Du Maurier, I found it most therapeutic.”

“A glass of wine, then?”

“Not today. I’m afraid I must run some last-minute errands for the party.”

“I see.” He sees, too, the tiniest flicker of disappointment ghost across her face, the way a frown tugs at the corners of her lips. She escorts him to the door while he pulls on his warm coat and leather gloves. “Merry Christmas, Hannibal. See you in the new year.”

 _Sooner than that,_ he thinks, the faint outline of a plan taking shape in his mind.

*

“Hannibal,” she says, wide look of surprise in her eyes as she opens the door. “This is most unusual.”

“You were expecting carolers, perhaps?” He dusts snowflakes off his shoulders. “May I come in?”

Bedelia steps aside and welcomes him across the threshold. He tries very hard not to track wet snow on her polished wood floors.

“Shouldn’t you be hosting a cocktail party right now?” she asks.

“I cancelled because of the snowstorm. I did not wish for my guests to risk driving in these conditions—there is a winter advisory.”

“And yet, here you are, having braved the storm. You did not take the same care with yourself.”

“I walked. After all, we live quite close to one another.” He hangs his coat in its customary place in the foyer closet. “It had only just begun to snow, but the streets were abandoned. It gave our neighborhood a surreal and lonely beauty.”

“Your favorite aesthetic,” she comments and he follows her into her kitchen. There is a single plate soaking in the sink; she has obviously just finished eating, his timing is impeccable. “So, you cancel your party and instead pay an unannounced visit to me on Christmas Eve.”

“I hope you will not find it rude, but I wished to share the Glühwein I had prepared with someone. And it is hard to be alone this time of year.” There is a plaintiveness and a reedy uncertainty in his voice he does not bother to disguise.

Bedelia grows quiet, then says, “I choose to be alone, Hannibal. That is the difference.”

“Sometimes I think solitude has chosen you.” A bristle of indignation travels up the spine of her spruce-colored Chanel sheath; once again he has stroked the cat’s fur against the grain. “And me,” he amends. “It’s why I like you. We are simpatico in that way.”

Bedelia silently arches a brow in his direction, then pulls a copper saucepan from her cupboards. _Good_ , he thinks. If she had wanted him to leave, she would have ushered him out the door by now.

She steps aside, but does not leave the room, watching him with interest has he prepares the mulled wine. He warms it over medium heat and soon the kitchen is humid with the smell of citrus, cinnamon, and star anise. When it is finished, he turns off the burner and begins dispensing it in the crystal punch glasses Bedelia has set on the counter. It glows a deep crimson, red as blood.

“Merry Christmas,” she toasts and he clinks glasses with her. He delights in watching her take that first sip—the first creation of his ever to pass her lips. Her eyelids flutter closed, and roses flush in her cheeks. “Mmmm,” she says, and he swears it is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

 _Glow wine_ , he thinks, and it has lived up to the promise of its name, for she is glowing, radiant and warm. “I have used cherry wine for the base, fortified with dark rum.”

She takes another appreciative sip. “I taste vanilla, too.”

He smiles, pleased beyond measure at her palate. “Yes, just a hint.” He places a hand at the small of her back and gently guides her in the direction of her living room. Bedelia has a small fire burning in the grate and choral music lightly playing on the hi-fi. It’s shadowed and romantic and hardly the same room at all from the place where he receives therapy.

They take their seats on the sofa next to one another, bypassing the chairs meant for Dr. Du Maurier and her patient. He sips his Glühwein, content to share the moment with her, the ancient carols in his ears and the crackling of the fire—if he concentrates hard enough he can even hear the snow falling outside. It is a moment worthy of a place of honor in his memory palace.

He opens his eyes to see that Bedelia has relaxed, having kicked off her heels and tucked her legs underneath her. “I have something for you,” he tells her.

“Hannibal,” she begins to protest, the countermove in their familiar game.

“Shh,” he hushes her. “If you’ll excuse me.” He heads back to the hall where he retrieves a gilt-edged box which he hands to Bedelia. “I promise you it was not expensive.”

She opens the box and pulls out a star and an angel made of straw. “Traditional Lithuanian ornaments.”

“I made them myself. I must say I am surprised you recognize their provenance.”

“I did a bit of research on Lithuanian Christmas traditions after our last session,” she admits, the Glühwein having melted her reserve.

“Because you wanted to understand me.” A statement, not a question. Her curiosity warms him, a heady brew, even stronger than wine.

“Yes,” she tells him, eyes wide and sincere. “Will you help me put them on the tree?”

“It would be my pleasure.” He takes the box of ornaments from her, helps her to place them just so, saving the angel for last to place on the highest bow, the bright golden straw the same color as Bedelia’s hair.

“They look very harmonious blended together like that—the old ornaments and the new,” she says.

“That was my hope.” The glittering, hollow heirlooms from the family that did not love her; the humble offerings from a man who does, who still loves with a peasant boy’s hungry heart. He takes her hand and squeezes it; it fits into his perfectly.

“I am sorry I have nothing to give you, Hannibal.”

“Nonsense,” he says, pulling her into his arms. If only there was mistletoe above them; he would kiss her in an instant. “Your company is present enough.”

She lets him hold her and he feels it like an almost physical thing, the moment when her barriers shatter like glass in his arms. “You shouldn’t go home tonight in this weather—I can make up the guest room…”

And then he does kiss her, thoroughly, passionately—in the way he has always wanted. And she kisses back with an abandon he could never have predicted, arms thrown about his neck, clinging to him like she is drowning and he is her only hope of rescue.

When they break, her eyes are dark and dusky with lust. “But I don’t want you to sleep in the guest room,” she whispers against his chest.

 _A Christmas miracle_ , he thinks to himself as he kisses her again and again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was my attempt to try to hit two (baby) birds with one stone. I wanted to write bedannibal Christmas fic and I also wanted to take a shot at the possibility that Bedelia and Hannibal might have gotten romantically involved before Florence.


End file.
